Return of the Outlaw

by C. M. Curtis

  He watched the receding shapes of Beeman and his horse grow small in the distance. It was time to be on his way. His life had a well-defined purpose now, and he would not turn aside from that purpose until it was accomplished—or he was dead.

  A cover of low, verdigris clouds had moved in from the north, blanketing the sky, their ponderous, pregnant bellies portending a downpour. As the storm moved southward down the valley toward him, it carried with it the rich smell of damp earth, making him grateful for his freedom. He mounted his horse and rode to the spot where Beeman had left the gun and the pack. Reviewing the contents of the latter, he found Beeman’s slicker and guiltily put it on. It was going to be a long, wet ride home for the sheriff. He tied the pack on his horse and buckled on the gun belt. He checked the loads in the pistol, and drew and holstered it a few times, familiarizing himself with its weight and balance. Pleased, he swung into the saddle. It was time to go home.

  Jeff was grateful for the rain; it checked the dust which might otherwise have signaled his passage, and he had no wish to encounter anyone else on this trail. When he thought about it, it was almost humorous how many enemies he had made without trying. The chances of him meeting someone who was friendly to him, coming from any direction on this trail, were remote. To the north were Tom Stewart, Rand Fogarty, and several hundred angry citizens. To the south were Stewart’s outlaws and the law, and in between there was always the possibility of encountering hostile Indians. All told, it added up to a significant number of people who were ill-disposed toward him. It would behoove him to maintain constant vigilance.

  He rode to the pass again and through the mountain, taking the trail the outlaws had clearly used to push the cattle southward, undoubtedly ending up at the ranch that was now known as the T.S. —the ranch Stewart had stolen from him. The trail led through a wild and broken section of country that most travelers would avoid. It was an outlaw trail and Jeff suspected the traveler who had the misfortune of encountering the rustlers on this trail would probably never reach his destination.

  By day he traveled with extreme caution, constantly scanning the trail ahead and behind, hoping to see anyone coming his way before they saw him. By night he made cold camps, not wanting to alert a potential enemy of his whereabouts with the light of a campfire or the smell of smoke. He ate his food cold and washed it down with water.

  When he was still a day and a half from his grandfather’s ranch, he arrived at a place he recognized: a small farm; an emerald dot amid the dry hills and rocks. He had come here with his grandfather many years ago as a boy. He debated whether to continue down the trail or ride over to the farm house a few hundred yards off the trail. In the end, his hunger for a hot meal and human companionship won out.

  He approached the house with caution. This had once been the home of friends, but he had learned never to assume things remained as they once were. As he neared the little house he became more wary. He saw no signs of human life except for a lazy stream of smoke that slid out of the chimney and meandered toward the flawless blue sky. The house was made of stone and had no windows except for narrow, rectangular rifle embrasures high up in each wall. It was a small fortress, built to protect its occupants against marauding Indians or any other manner of enemy.

  Jeff walked the horse to within a hundred yards of the house and stopped, reluctant to go any farther without knowing who was inside. Without a rifle he felt unprotected. He was grateful for the pistol Beeman had given him, but it would be of little use against attackers armed with rifles. He pondered his situation for a moment, unsure what do.

  His grandfather had known the people who had built this place, a family named Ruggles: Strange people who had chosen to make their life in this isolated spot. But what if they didn’t live here anymore? He studied the area around the house, his eyes searching for any clue regarding its inhabitants.

  There was still no movement other than the smoke from the chimney. He thought of turning around and heading on down the trail, but his stomach reminded him it was lunch time, and he recalled Mrs. Ruggles’ cooking. He had never eaten better. She had served fresh venison steaks with hot biscuits, beans, and a variety of garden vegetables. He remembered with relish one of the most memorable elements of the meal: an unfamiliar, green, leafy vegetable which Mrs. Ruggles had served in both cooked and uncooked form.

  Sure could use some of that right now, he thought, and his stomach growled its assent.

  “Hello, the house,” he called. He rode a little closer. Instantly there was movement to the right and to the left, as a man on either side of him raised up from places of concealment where Jeff was sure not even an Indian could hide. Each man had a rifle, each rifle was aimed at Jeff. Then, from behind him, came a voice, “Hello yourself, stranger.” Jeff started to turn around.

  “Don’t move,” commanded the voice, “or we’ll fill you so full of holes you’ll throw a pokey dot shadder.” Jeff recognized the husky voice of Edna Ruggles. “Put your right hand way up high,” she commanded, “and with your left hand, slide that pistol out of its holster.

  He did as he was instructed and placed the pistol in the out-stretched hand of Mrs. Ruggles, who was now standing beside his horse, the barrel of her rifle poking him uncomfortably in the ribs.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” he said. “I’ve been here before.”

  “Shush,” she said, “get down off your horse and let me have a squint at your face.”

  Neither of the two men had moved or spoken. They stood immobile, their rifles held to their shoulders.

  Jeff dismounted slowly and Edna Ruggles, keeping the rifle barrel to his ribs, drew her face close to his, looking directly into his eyes. After a moment she pulled back and took a few steps backward. She pointed the rifle barrel at some green plants growing alongside the trail a few paces from where Jeff stood.

  “Pick me a mess of that weed,” she commanded.

  Jeff hesitated at this unusual command, fearing a trick. But knowing he had no choice, he bent and pulled a handfull of the weed which he held out to the woman.

  Her face broke into a wide, gap-toothed grin. “If that’s all the greens you want, then you sure ain’t as hungry as you was the last time you et here. Pa, Fred, this here’s Jeffie, you remember Jeffie.”

  The two men lowered their rifles and hurried to where Jeff and Edna Ruggles stood, giving Jeff a gleeful welcome. Warm handshakes and rough slaps on shoulders were exchanged.

  “You’ve changed some since you were here last,” said Levi Ruggles through a gray, untrimmed beard.”

  “I’m surprised you remember me,” Jeff stated. “I was ten years old.”

  “We don’t get many visitors out here,” said Mrs. Ruggles, “so we remember ‘em all, ‘specially if they favor my cookin’ the way you did. You favor your grandpa, you know.”

  To Jeff’s eyes, Edna Ruggles had changed little over the years. Not that she looked young, but neither had she looked young to him when he was a boy. She was a big woman, six feet tall and built like a man; one of those women who seem to possess no trace of femininity. Her voice was husky and she talked rough and wore a man’s hat and shoes with her plain, home-spun dress. Her arms were thick and muscular, her shoulders broad and her hips narrow, and she was constantly moving and talking; wherever Edna Ruggles went, there was action.

  Levi Ruggles was the antithesis of his wife: small and slender, slow moving, slow talking and seemingly imperturbable. Sometimes, people who were merely acquainted with the Ruggles said Levi allowed Edna to ”rule the roost.” The few people who knew them well did not say that.

  Jeff recalled they had only one child—a boy named Fred, who was several years younger than he. Once, in childish innocence, Jeff had asked Edna why she had not had more children. She had replied with a mischievous wink at her son. “After the way Freddie turned out, we didn’t dare risk it again.” Then she had grown more serious. “That’s somethin’ the good Lord decides, Jeffie. Maybe some day.”

&nb
sp; It had been years since Jeff had thought of the Ruggles, but he felt the revival of a deep friendship stirring inside him, inspired by the welcome he was receiving. In recent times he had grown to appreciate what a rare thing true friendship was, and now he understood as well, that it remains unaffected by the passage of time. He bent down and picked another large handful of the dark green leaves.

  As they approached the house, Jeff noticed the front door was now open. This surprised him, for he had thought the Ruggles family all present and accounted for. He wondered who this other person would turn out to be.

  “Lucy, come on out and meet a special guest,” shouted Edna.

  A small, white hand appeared on the edge of the door, and with a timidity born of a life of isolation, a long-haired, slender young girl slowly emerged from the dark interior of the house. Jeff estimated her age to be fourteen or fifteen.

  “This is Lucy, our gift from God,” said a beaming Edna Ruggles, stroking the girl’s shining yellow hair. “Now speak the truth, in all your roamin’ days, have you ever seen a prettier girl?”

  “No, I honestly haven’t,” said Jeff. And he meant it.

  Lucy blushed and clutched her mother’s arm, leaning against the big woman, magnifying by this proximity the absolute lack of resemblance between the two.

  “Takes after her father’s side,” said Edna. “All the women in his family are pretty. I think she favors her Aunt Carlotta most.”

  Levi pointed to a small square of ground in front of the house. In it were flowers planted in short, neat rows. “Lucy planted them,” he declared proudly.

  “We never had flowers before; weren’t no time for it,” explained Edna. “But I’ll admit I never was much of a hand for tendin’ flowers. Take them greens from Jeffie, honey,” she instructed Lucy. “We women had best get busy cookin’. We’ve company to feed.”

  Lunch was served on a long plank table under a tree in the yard. Levi read a passage from the Bible and said grace. For the first time in days, Jeff relaxed a little, sharing with his hosts the job of maintaining vigilance. The site they had chosen for their farm commanded a good view of the surrounding area and by force of long-standing habit, their eyes constantly swept the terrain.

  Jeff leaned his elbows on the rough-hewn table and enjoyed the cooking, which was quite as good as he remembered. Halfway through the meal, with the sharpest edge of his appetite blunted, he began noticing the attentive service he was receiving from Lucy. The girl was watching him and seemed to anticipate his every need. When he reached for his second helping of biscuits, she quickly slid the butter over to him. His coffee cup was only half empty when she was at this side, holding the towel-wrapped handle of the bulky coffee pot to refill it.

  The rest of the family had long since finished eating when Jeff at last pushed back his plate and smiled at Edna. Noting the expectancy on her face he said, “Only one other time in my life have I eaten food this good, and that was at this same table.”

  Edna Ruggles attempted vainly to hide her immense satisfaction. “Oh, it was just something me and Lucy throwed together at the last minute.”

  Lucy was at his side again, carrying a large rhubarb pie. She sat it down and sliced it into four small wedges and one giant piece, which she slid onto Jeff’s plate. Jeff started to protest this inequitable distribution of the dessert, but a quick wink and a nod from Edna stopped him. He thanked Lucy, and while the other members of the family were being served their small portions, he began savoring the pie which, as a culinary effort, was in nowise inferior to the meal he had just finished.

  Lucy watched intently as Jeff ate and refilled his coffee cup two more times. Finally, after a heroic effort, Jeff finished his pie, leaned back in the chair and patted his stomach. “That was the best piece of pie I ever ate.”

  “Lucy made that pie,” said Edna.

  “Is that so Lucy?” he asked.

  Lucy dropped her eyes and nodded her head.

  “Well, that’s just amazing,” said Jeff “Up till now, Mrs. Ruggles, I thought there was nobody else in the world who could cook as good as you, but it looks like you’ve met your match.” Edna beamed, and Lucy blushed.

  When the meal was over they remained at the table, and for a time no one spoke as they savored the contentment of full stomachs and peaceful surroundings, each with his or her own private thoughts. The soothing sounds of the animals in the corrals and stables, the clucking and scratching of the chickens in the yard, the soft humming and buzzing sounds of insects and the mild susurrus of the breeze in the tree above them all contributed to the tranquility, but did not intrude consciously on Jeff’s thoughts.

  “Sorry about the reception we gave you out at the trail, Jeffie,” said Levi, interrupting the silence. “We didn’t know it was you.”

  Jeff waved his hand dismissively and opened his mouth to speak, but Levi continued, “Used to be nobody came by here, but nowadays we don’t go more than a week or two without somebody, or a bunch of somebodies passin’ through. Not that we mind travelers,” he added. “Our home is open to all good and decent people, but the kind of people that’s been passing by here lately, why you’d just as soon have a swarm of rattlesnakes over for dinner.”

  “My opinion, they’re just plain outlaws,” offered Fred.

  “Of course they’re outlaws,” said Edna. “They’re rustler outlaws.”

  “Judge not,” said Levi in a kindly voice. “We don’t know for a fact they’re rustlers or outlaws; we ain’t witnessed any of their acts, but it ain’t hard to tell they’re not God-fearin’ men.”

  “Of course they’re rustlers,” retorted Edna. “They ride north, and a week or two later they ride back south again, pushing a herd of cattle with fresh brands. If they weren’t rustlers, they could take an easier trail, ‘stead of coming through this forsaken spot.”

  “Forsaken?” asked Levi. “Look around you, woman; you can see the Lord’s hand in everything you look at. Look at the mountain and the trees. Look at the grass that’s growed so green from the rain he sent us. Look at our fat, healthy livestock, and our two healthy children. We’ve plenty of good food to eat, and a roof over our heads. What more do you want, woman? What does a town have to offer us that’s truly important, that we don’t have here?”

  Jeff could tell that this was not a new argument, and he was uncomfortable at having to witness it.

  “A school,” asserted Edna, “a church, stores, neighbors.”

  “Schools, churches, and neighbors,” scoffed Levi. He slapped his hand on the Bible beside him on the table. This is our school. Both of our children can read from the Bible—you taught ‘em yourself—and this is our church.” He thumped the dog-eared book again. “We read the words of the Lord every day, not just on Sundays. Our children can recite the ten commandments—and live ‘em too. And don’t talk to me about neighbors. I’ve had neighbors. All they’re good for is complainin’ and gossipin’. They don’t need my cows gettin’ into their cornfield, and I don’t need theirs gettin’ into mine. What else do you need that we don’t have here?”

  Looking down, Edna said in a voice that was low, almost inaudible, “Maybe a new dress.”

  Levi snorted and looked away, as if this last statement was unworthy of an argument.

  Suddenly Edna seemed embarrassed. “I meant for Lucy,” she said. She stared silently at the dirty plate in front of her. Levi watched her for a moment, ready to defend himself and this life he had chosen against any further attacks. When none came, he relaxed, looked back at Jeff and resumed the previous discussion. “We ain’t had any trouble with them yet, except once when they butchered one of our hogs. But I don’t like the looks of them. They’re trouble. You can see it with your eyes closed.”

  That evening after another superb meal, they all sat in the front room of the house and Levi read aloud from the Bible as he did every night. Edna sat and knitted with home-spun yarn, and Fred whittled on an unusually shaped piece of wood. Lucy sat next to her mother, ostensibly li
stening to her father read, but surreptitiously watching Jeff, her eyes flitting away from his face whenever he turned her way. Several times during the day Jeff had caught those large blue eyes watching him, and had seen the look in them before they darted shyly away. He felt sorry for Lucy in this lonely existence.

  Levi finished his reading, closed the Bible, and set it on his lap. “What you working on, Fred?”

  “Cougar.”

  Jeff had previously noticed a row of artistically carved animals sitting on the mantle piece. He stood and walked over to the fireplace to make a closer inspection of Fred’s handiwork. Most of the carvings were of wild animals, but there were a few farm animals included in the menagerie. Jeff was impressed by the fine detail and faithfulness of the pieces.

  Edna looked up from her knitting. “Got a talent, don’t he?”

  “Sure does,” said Jeff. “Wish I could do that.”

  “You could learn,” said Fred. “It ain’t so tough to do.” He spoke with the naive confidence of one who possesses an inborn ability. “Any piece of wood that’s worth whittlin’ on already has the figure in it that needs to come out. The good Lord put it there. All you got to do is carve off all the extra wood around it and set it free. The first trick is just bein’ able to spot what’s trapped inside that piece of wood. You want to try?”

  “Sure,” said Jeff, but he lacked Fred’s confidence in the simplicity of the endeavor.

  Fred slid a box out from beneath the chair on which he was sitting. It contained several knives of different shapes, obviously homemade, a whet stone, and numerous pieces of wood of varying types, shapes, and sizes. He selected a knife for Jeff. “This will be the best one to start out with. Now you need to find your piece of wood. It’s kind of like lyin’ on your back and lookin’ up at the clouds. You can see all sorts of things in ‘em if you let your mind run. Just pick a piece and look at it for a while. Sometimes it helps if you squint.”